


Simon Has Been Slain (reupload/rework)

by petriganda



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Gore, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 08:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27467740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petriganda/pseuds/petriganda
Summary: A sleepy east-coast town wakes up to the gruesome murder of a well-known and well-loved professor. The police aren't helping and bodies are piling up. Marceline is trapped in the center of everything.
Relationships: Princess Bubblegum/Marceline
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so the original version of this got orphaned on accident (i thought i was orphaning something else) and was admittedly a mess. i didnt get a chance to actually post most of the original draft because im an idiot who doesnt double-check anything so it barely matters but major differences are
> 
> -marceline and betty are the protagonists along with bonnibel  
> -less characters are crammed in theres an actual cast  
> -finn doesnt die first that was stupid
> 
> the prologue is completely the same though. 
> 
> major cw for gore and violence all the way through!!! this is a craven-style slasher au.

It was early. The sun wasn't even up yet. Simon always woke up before the sun, whether he wanted to or not. It was a habit, one that he had decided would serve no good to break. He got up at an unholy hour, he took his "coffee" (hazelnut creamer with a splash of espresso,) and waited for Betty to wake up before leaving for the day. That particular morning, however, Dr. Grof wasn't home. She had spent the last couple of weeks in another state on business and was only just on her way back. Last the two had spoken, she was still five hours out but he wasn't quite sure how long ago that was. He'd been half asleep when they talked, speaking through yawns.

Raindrops tapped on the roof and windows and light thunder rumbled in the sky. He figured he would dust or something, that way Betty could come home to a neat apartment. There wasn’t much to do but dust, it had only been him for two weeks and even then he wasn’t home too often. He was a workaholic, well known to fall asleep for the night at the university. He played music as he dusted, not really paying attention to what he put on, just whatever he picked up first. The record crackled with age. His body swayed slightly to the music as he thoroughly dusted every trinket, collectible, and antique that lined the walls of their small apartment. Simon’s focus was not an easy thing to break and though that was definitely a helpful trait in his trade, it was soon to betray him. Simon did not hear someone very, very quietly slide a key into the locked deadbolt, he did not hear them creeping softly across the bare hardwood, and he did not hear them sneak up carefully behind him. They tapped him on the shoulder gently, just enough to pull him from his cleaning spree.

“Marceline?” He asked as he had assumed she was the only one aside from himself and Betty with a key to their apartment. He took the needle off of his record and turned around to face the intruder. His face twisted in confusion. “You’re not Marcy!” The stranger brandished a knife, and Simon was quick to react. He stumbled to the front door, aiming for the phone at the front desk in the lobby of the complex to call the police, or at the very least get someone's attention. To his terror, the door was still locked and he did not have time to get his key.

Simon Petrikov, aged forty-three years, was slain at 6:02 am on Saturday, October the third in the year 1987. He was stabbed six times in the chest. It took him forty-five long minutes to die, and three even longer hours before Betty Grof could return home to find what was left of him. Simon’s killer is now at large.


	2. Grief and Exposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A grieving period for our heroines before the nightmare starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah i actually finished this chapter it shouldnt have taken so long given how weak it is

Simon’s death had shaken the town. After all, if your own home wasn’t safe, what was? Despite the crime being committed at rush hour, no one had seen anyone go in or out of the couple’s apartment. Dr. Elizabeth Grof, at long last home from a particularly draining book tour, had found him dead in the kitchen two weeks from their wedding day. She refused to sleep in their apartment, opting to stay in a hotel in the next city for the foreseeable future. The idea of sleeping in that bed without him at her side was too much for her to bear, not with the wound still so fresh. During a murder investigation, when a loved one is asked why anyone would want the victim dead, of course they would say they couldn’t imagine. They were such a good person, their smile lit up the room, et cetera. In this case, that was exceptionally true. Simon Petrikov, though tough as nails when need be, was a gentle, caring, almost unbearably good person. He was an innocent soul, with a sort of sweet naivete and a pitiful fragility that made it difficult to be angry with him. Although he could be unintentionally callous and wasn’t the most socially capable, he was still a charmingly sweet person. He spent most of his time either in the apartment he shared with his girlfriend or studying at the university he worked for. He simply didn’t get into trouble.

A week had passed since that morning and it was now the day of the funeral. Betty had run out of tears and just felt numb. She wore blue rather than black and held his glasses tight in her hands. The skin around her bloodshot eyes was purple and puffy, her makeup doing very little to conceal it. She had finally pushed herself to wash her face that morning, but she still hadn't showered that week and she'd barely eaten. She was a wreck.

The couple had been notorious in the world of academia for the last decade or so. They were odd individuals, leaving impressions on those who encountered them. Betty had few inhibitions and had to be physically held back when angered. She came from a good family, a 6th generation college graduate born to a rocket scientist and a lawyer. Her propositions were as odd as she was, but raised plausible questions. Simon, however, was a peculiar man with habits that always warranted a second thought. He came from nothing, no family to speak of, and hardly any money. He had viciously clawed up to where he was and was as stubborn as they came. They had met when he was a freshman and she was a junior and had defended each other back to back ever since. Some believed their relationship unprofessional, that no good could come from a woman co-authoring countless books with her boyfriend. They had patched that hole by proposing. It had been 6 months since he'd asked her to marry him, though they both had rings in their pockets that night with the intention of proposing. They had been everything to each other their entire adult lives. Alone, she was just half of a whole. Broken.

She barely noticed the funeral as it happened. Her mind was nowhere and reality felt like a barely-there dream. The whole entire world was grey and the air felt like gelatin. She was tired and hungry and grimy. After everything was over, she collapsed into her bed at the hotel. Just as her back hit the bed, her dysphoria evaporated into a red hot rage. She threw everything she could get her hands on, watching vases and lamps and bottles shatter against the wall until her energy finally drained. She fell asleep for the night and dreamed about her wedding which should have been a week from then. Though she woke up no less furious, she had found a way to channel that rage into the motivation she so terribly needed. She cleaned the hotel room as best she could, scrubbing the walls and got the glass out of the carpet as thoroughly as she could. Next, she took a shower, watching with heavy eyes as the last miserable awful week circled the drain and washed away. She ate the first hot meal she’d had in weeks, a lumberjack breakfast from the hotel restaurant. She checked out of the hotel before heading back to her apartment. She wasn’t entirely sure if she was ready, but she didn’t have time to wait for herself to adjust. She needed to be at home.

She fully intended on finding the killer herself. When she did, she would make them wish they’d just been carried off to prison. 

Even with the lights on, the home felt dark. The place was in order and the fridge was cleaned out. If she remembered right, Marceline had called to tell her she was spending a few nights there that week, having said something about getting away from her dad for a few days. Betty’s heart panged when she stepped into the master bedroom, and she swallowed hard. Everything was as Simon had left it. Her half of the room was always a mess, but he had gotten it in order while she’d been away. “I’m not ready,” she whispered. She took his glasses from her jacket pocket and set them on his nightstand, just how he would leave them when he slept. She shut the door gently so as not to wake him up. She wouldn’t be going back in there unless she absolutely needed something. She drifted through the house, drinking in its dreadful emptiness. The office was a mess, the leftovers of something Simon had been working on cluttering up the desk. It killed her knowing she would need to move it, but she would need their computer at some point. Marceline’s room had been dusted and from the looks of things gone through. Toys and drawings and books were strewn around, no doubt by Marceline herself. Betty sat down on Marceline’s bed and sighed. She had no idea where to begin. The crime scene, her own front door, would have absolutely been a great place to start. Walking through there to enter the home had turned her stomach as she was brought back to the morning she’d found him.

She slumped over on the couch, gathering herself before at last standing up and slowly creeping over to where Simon had died. The place… wasn't as thoroughly cleaned as it should have been. There was a console table next to the entrance containing a crystal ashtray full of odds and ends, a small cactus, a framed picture of Simon, Marceline, and herself, and a plastic bin filled with forgotten mail. All of it was splattered with dried blood droplets, and the sight made her almost sick. She swallowed her nausea and turned her attention to the scratches in the paint on the door. They were the only indication of a struggle, everything else left exactly where it was supposed to be. Nothing was broken, none of the several priceless artifacts or valuable books had been stolen, no money or electronics. It had been done for the hell of it, no other reason. She took the ashtray from the table and shattered it against the wall before sinking to her knees. She couldn't understand. Who would do this? She hadn't noticed tears falling down her cheeks until she moved to wipe them away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marceline’s father paid good money for her to get into that fancy school, or so he informed her whenever she missed classes. He wouldn’t really cut off her tuition, or anything else he thought might make her love him less. 

A week since Simon died, a week she’d spent in her room. The funeral was that day, or at least she was pretty sure. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t going. She sat with her back against her bedroom door, holding her ratty old teddy bear to her chest for dear life. Even now, years later, the bear still smelled just exactly like cheap incense and aging books. It smelled like home, not like her father’s big scary clue board of a house. This damned house was the last place she wanted to be, but as it stood she had nowhere else to go. She had wrecked the living room, the floor carpeted with splintered glass and expensive whiskey. Now she hid in her room, dreading the moment her father noticed the carnage and confronted her. He wouldn’t be mad, of course, awful as he was, he understood that she was grieving. He would probably come up to her room and say something vaguely sympathetic before leaving to do whatever it was he did when he was alone. That was all he did. He spent exuberant amounts of money on her, made some feeble attempt at parenting when he felt obligated, then left her alone. He had actually fought for custody, but for what? Her mother died when she was five and he conveniently disappeared without a trace. Simon, an acquaintance of her mother, had taken her in instead, looking after her like his own until she was thirteen and Hunson came back for her. The men had despised each other but had always been quiet about it for Marceline’s sake. She knew, of course, she just didn't care.

. “I hate him. Hunson is the worst and I hate him and I hope he dies.” The phone downstairs rang, but she didn't flinch. She was too tired and angry to talk to anyone. That, and she knew there was no way she would be able to hold it together long enough for so much as awkward small talk.

The stages of grief don't come in any particular order, but she had gone straight from shock to bargaining. She blamed Hunson for taking her away. Had she been there, maybe he'd still be alive. She hadn't shed a tear for her surrogate parent, just rage. Boundless, white-hot rage.


End file.
